


don't blame me for falling

by thelittlebirdthattoldyou



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Athletic Trainer Iwaizumi Hajime, BAMF Oikawa Tooru, Canon Compliant, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Haikyuu!! Chapter 402: Final Chapter: Challengers Spoilers, Iwaizumi Hajime-centric, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Olympics, Pining, Pining Oikawa Tooru, Pro Volleyball Player Oikawa Tooru, team japan more like iwaizumi harem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29626227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittlebirdthattoldyou/pseuds/thelittlebirdthattoldyou
Summary: Tooru doesn’t ask himself why he cares so much about this one person confessing to his best friend, and if anyone asked him about it, he wouldn’t be able to answer. It’s just… Iwaizumi is his ace. They’ve always come as a pair; no one monopolizes as much of Iwaizumi’s time as Tooru does. And Tooru, selfish as he is, doesn’t like to part with what’s his.Five times Oikawa gets jealous, and one time Iwaizumi finally notices (and does something about it).
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 18
Kudos: 248
Collections: Haikyuu!! Valentine Exchange





	don't blame me for falling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agent37draws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent37draws/gifts).



> thank you for your lovely prompts!! they were a blast to write, and i tried to include at least 2 of them as well as a few other things you mentioned that you liked. please enjoy <3
> 
> also, a huge thank you to my beta reader [slainephoto](https://twitter.com/slainephoto) for all the help!
> 
> title: "to be so lonely" - harry styles

1\. 

Perched on the top of his doorstep as he is, Tooru has an unobstructed view of the street in both directions. His head swivels left and right, scanning the idyllic neighborhood for the familiar spiky black hair and scowl he’s expecting to see. The sun bears down on him, and he peers up into it; he’s getting bored of waiting. His mom had offered to let him stay inside until Iwaizumi came by, or that she wait outside with him until they could all walk to school together, but Tooru turned her down on both counts. He’s a kindergartener now, almost a grown-up, and grown-ups don’t need their parents to hold their hands.

The only person he _does_ need is Iwaizumi. Because at the precocious age of six, Tooru has already mastered the specific brand of charm that allows him to wrap every adult he meets around his finger. One gap-toothed smile or pleading look, and he has all the uncles and aunties on his street fawning over him. But he’s still a little shy when it comes to interacting with kids his age, a little awkward and gangly, and he needs Iwaizumi there to test out the waters before he jumps in.

Tooru presses his knees together, hunching over them to stare down at his sneakers. They’re brand new, firetruck red, purchased only yesterday when he saw them in a store window and begged his mom to buy them for him as a last-minute present. Now he wonders whether they’re too loud, whether they’ll make him stand out too much.

A shadow falls over him, bright sunlight replaced with a grubby outstretched hand. Tooru blinks at it, then at the boy it’s attached to. Iwaizumi, on his first day of kindergarten, looks as unimpressed as ever, clutching the strap of his backpack with one hand and holding the other out to help Tooru up.

Tooru takes it, scrambling to his feet. All his former self-pity vanishes like dust, and all of a sudden it seems silly how dramatic he was being.

They set off on the trek to their elementary school, small enough that the narrow sidewalk squares would be able to accommodate them both even if they weren’t pressed side-by-side. It’s quiet save for the early-morning chirping of birds and the scuff of their shoes on the pavement, and Tooru chews his lip as he wonders what the day has in store for them.

Iwaizumi glances over at him, and seconds later, a bony hand wraps itself around Tooru’s own. Surprised, Tooru lifts his head to look at Iwaizumi, just in time to see him rolling his eyes. “Scaredy-cat-Tooru,” he says. “Don’t worry so much.”

“I was not!” Tooru protests immediately.

He grabs onto Iwaizumi’s hand a little bit tighter, though, and his insides feel all warm and gooey, like chocolate. Iwaizumi is right here. He’ll be fine.

And he is, at least until recess rolls around. The two of them get to school early enough to have their pick of seats, and Iwaizumi lets himself be dragged to the front row without complaint. Even if he would rather sit in the back.

They stick together as their classmates trickle in and when they’re asked to introduce themselves and through their first lesson of the day. At lunch, Tooru drags his seat closer to Iwaizumi’s so they can put their bentos on the same desk. Oikawa picks all the tomatoes out of his food and slips them into Iwaizumi’s box when he’s not looking, only for them to mysteriously reappear. Neither of them like tomatoes.

It’s only after lunch, when they’re dismissed to go out onto the playground, that the problems arise.

“Hey, Hajime-kun.” One of the other boys in their class approaches before they’ve even made it out the door, waving at Iwaizumi like Tooru isn’t even there. Like Tooru hasn’t been beside him all day.

Tooru frowns. He likes Iwaizumi’s given name. He likes it a lot: the syllables flow pleasantly into each other, and they’re easy to stretch into sing-song. He must have said it a million times by now. But he hates the way it sounds coming from this stranger.

“Oh, hi,” Iwaizumi says, unbothered, which makes Tooru feel even worse.

“We’re gonna play baseball,” the boy says. “Wanna join?” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, toward the grassy field outside. A group of kids is already congregating around a makeshift dugout, _ooh_ ing and _ahh_ ing over the shiny wooden bat someone’s parents must have bought him as a first day of school gift.

Tooru glares at the back of Iwaizumi’s head. _Say no,_ he thinks, because he’s joked about the two of them having a psychic connection before but if there’s any possibility that it’s true, he wants it to be right now. _Say no say no say no say—_

“Sounds fun,” Iwaizumi says. Tooru’s heart sinks.

He debates between telling Iwaizumi to go on ahead and asking Iwaizumi not to leave him. It’s their first day, and he doesn’t want to come across as needy. Maybe Iwaizumi _wants_ to be able to make new friends and sit with them at the back of the class.

But he doesn’t get the chance to say anything at all because Iwaizumi turns to him. “Let’s go, Tooru,” he says.

Iwaizumi is facing Tooru, so he doesn’t see the look of surprise that flashes over the other boy’s face. But Tooru does, and his resolve solidifies. “Sure thing, Ha—” his tongue stumbles over the sounds of Iwaizumi’s name. “Iwa-chan,” he corrects.

“Iwa-chan?” Iwaizumi asks, taken aback. He frowns at Tooru, as if demanding some sort of explanation.

Tooru doesn’t have one for him. He’s too young to know how to put a voice to the knotted feeling in his chest when he hears _Hajime_ from someone else’s mouth. Too young to understand, even in his own mind, why he wants his name for Iwaizumi to be unique.

(Maybe Iwaizumi gets it, though, because in the coming years, whenever anyone else tries to call him _Iwa-chan,_ he’s ruthless in shutting it down.)

And besides, their classmate is standing right there, eyeing them uncertainly. “Well,” he says. He shifts on his feet. “I guess he can come too.”

Iwaizumi’s scrutiny is lifted from Tooru and directed toward him, instead. “Sure he can.” Iwaizumi says it like it’s a given thing, like it never even crossed his mind that Tooru might not be allowed to follow where he goes. Tooru’s cheeks feel hot.

It’s an informal game in the middle of recess with a bunch of hyperactive children, but it’s also their first time playing on the same team. Tooru doesn’t have Iwaizumi’s natural athleticism—his parents always thought he looked too delicate for sports—but he bridges most of the gap with sheer determination. And every time he manages to hit the ball or slide into another base, he catches Iwaizumi grinning at him, and it’s a good feeling. He wants it to last.

(Two weeks later, Tooru sees his first volleyball match on TV, in the middle of helping his mom fold that week’s laundry. And everything clicks.)

2.

The low point of Tooru’s middle school volleyball career is when he’s benched and swapped out for Kageyama. He knows he’s been off his game. Serves that land just past the back line, sets always a tad too low or too high. And he’s been tossing to Iwaizumi far more than he should be. His team has been sending him worried glances for the entire practice match, and he’s had to pretend he doesn’t notice their concern. Iwaizumi, in particular, is burning holes in the back of Tooru’s head with his glare. Tooru knows that _he_ knows that he stayed up too late last night, watching and rewatching game tapes. The only reason Iwaizumi hasn’t called him out on it is because they didn’t have any time to talk before the other team arrived.

Their coach calls a time out and, on instinct, Tooru looks over. Crushing guilt and fear settles in Tooru’s stomach when he sees Kageyama holding his paddle, the number 1 printed on it in blocky ink.

_This is how it starts,_ he thinks. First a practice match, then an actual game, and who knows how long it will be before the title of starting setter is ripped from him as well.

His limbs are numb as he jogs off the court and takes the paddle. Kageyama, oblivious to Tooru’s inner turmoil, replaces him at the net. Tooru falls into his seat. He watches with grit teeth as his teammates greet Kageyama, patting him on the back and welcoming him among their ranks.

Iwaizumi glances at him once, and Tooru looks away before he can read the accusation in that gaze.

The opponent serves, and the rally begins. Kitadai’s libero digs the ball up and sends it flying in a clean line toward Kageyama. It barely grazes his fingertips before it’s whizzing off again. Iwaizumi is already in position, and he swings his arm down, slamming the ball in between the opposing blockers onto the court.

A perfect spike, and an even more perfect set. Tooru’s eyes burn, but he forces himself to keep them trained on Kageyama. Iwaizumi pats him on the back, grinning and complimenting him on the toss. That’s how Iwaizumi is—kind, supportive. Never cruel or capricious or painfully, awfully insecure the way Tooru is so often. Too often.

The coach passes him a towel, and he buries his face in it, squeezing his eyes shut against an onslaught of angry tears. He’s overheated from the exertion of the game, but he doesn’t feel it. His body is like ice, frozen in place, and cold sweat trickles from the nape of his neck down his spine. He’s known from the first day of his third year, watching Kageyama at practice, that being replaced on the court was a real possibility—but he’s never, never considered that Iwaizumi might replace him as well.

He’s being stupid. Iwaizumi isn’t going to abandon years—more than a decade—of friendship because of one bad match. _But_ —Tooru thinks— _but he should. He would be so much better off without me._

Iwaizumi is probably tired of cleaning up Tooru’s messes all the time. Maybe he does it out of a sense of duty, some sort of misplaced loyalty just because they’ve been together so long. Maybe he would be secretly relieved if he didn’t have to deal with Tooru anymore.

Tooru lets the tears come, presses the towel against his eyes and pretends he’s wiping excess sweat off his brow. They trail down his face, hot and heavy, and the damning thoughts continue to ricochet in his head. The world around him—the scuff of gym shoes, the impact of volleyballs against palms and the net and the floor—is drowned out by the sound of his own ragged breathing.

The rest of the game doesn’t last long. They were in the middle of the third set when Tooru was switched out, the score tied at one point per team. Kitagawa Daiichi wins, but as they line up to shake hands with the other school, all Tooru can think is that they should have won in straight sets. He should have played better, should have been the one to win them the game.

But he’s still the captain—it’s too late for anyone else to take that title from him, at least—and he still has to put on an act and congratulate his team for their victory. As their opponents pack up and prepare to leave, Oikawa gathers his teammates around him. The smile is plastic on his lips. He’s sure everyone, especially Iwaizumi, can see through it as he speaks.

“Alright, everyone!” Tooru cheers, clapping his hands together. “Great game today. Let’s take a break for a few minutes to get water and change and clean up the gym, and then we’ll get into the briefing from our coaches.”

His teammates nod and disperse, all except one.

Tooru hums, turning away from Iwaizumi and toward the bench. He takes his time grabbing his water bottle, unscrewing the lid, and bringing it to his lips, but there’s only so much time that he can stall. Eventually, he gulps and forces himself to face his best friend.

His arms are crossed, and he studies Tooru’s face carefully with one eyebrow raised. Tooru gets defensive. “What?” he asks.

Iwaizumi scowls. “Don’t give me that crap.”

Tooru tightens his grip around the water bottle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

“Stop acting like you’re fine,” Iwaizumi says. “I know what you’re thinking. Kageyama isn’t going to replace you.”

“I’m not worried about Tobio-chan.” Tooru tries to flash his signature smile, though he has a sinking suspicion that it looks more like a grimace. “Don’t be silly.” Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a group of players forming a loose semicircle around their coach. He relaxes, grateful for the distraction. “Come on, Iwa-chan. Coach wants to talk to us.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes bore into him for what feels like an eternity, and then he sighs and shakes his head, letting the subject drop. “This isn’t over,” he says.

“Uh huh,” Tooru says, already walking away.

He manages to avoid eye contact with Iwaizumi while their coach reads them the play-by-play of the game. As soon as it’s over, he flees to the showers and stays there, scrubbing his skin raw, until most of the team has gone home and the water is cold. When he hears the last pair of footsteps leave the club room, he closes the faucet and towels himself off.

Iwaizumi has left, too, and Tooru’s feet drag along the tile floors as he changes into a clean t-shirt and gym shorts. His mind and his body want nothing more than to go home, crawl into bed, and pass out, but he pushes through the haze of lethargy and makes his way back to the gym.

Except that Iwaizumi hasn’t left. He’s still here, and so is Kageyama. And when Tooru loses it and tries to backhand Kageyama across the face in a haze of rage and terror, Iwaizumi is the one to seize his wrist and pull him away.

“You’re not okay,” Iwaizumi says later, when they’re walking home, after Tooru’s thoughts have settled down and his nose has stopped bleeding. He’s staring up at the stars, but there’s no question that he expects his words to be heard and understood. “And this was about more than just volleyball. You can admit it.”

Tooru sighs, kicking a stray rock on the sidewalk. At this point, further denial would be an exercise in futility. “What do I have to do to stop you from seeing through me all the time, Iwa-chan?” he wonders aloud.

Really, it’s annoying. When he’s with Iwaizumi, he feels like glass.

Iwaizumi scoffs. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. If you could be honest for once, I wouldn’t have to read so far into everything.”

“Hm.” Tooru tucks his hands into his pockets. In the distance, a cricket chirps. “Iwa-chan, you’re my best friend, right?”

He doesn’t even have to check to know that Iwaizumi is frowning. “Yeah?” he says, like it should be obvious. “Who else would I be?”

“Why?” Tooru asks.

Iwaizumi slows to a stop. “What?” he asks.

“Never mind, forget it,” Tooru says. “Let’s go home.” He grabs Iwaizumi’s hand to try to drag him forward, but he doesn’t budge.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says—low, a warning. “What are you talking about?”

“I just—” Tooru sighs, fidgets. “Why are you friends with me? I’m… not a good person.” He cringes as he says it; the admission burns coming out of his mouth. But it’s true.

“Well,” Iwaizumi says, “not always.”

“Not most of the time,” Tooru corrects. “You say it all the time. I’m too loud, I’m annoying, I’m fake—I almost hurt Tobio-chan because of a _practice match,_ and I—”

A fist collides with his shoulder and Tooru winces, stumbling back. Iwaizumi glowers at him, but despite the threat of violence to his person, he continues. “And you’re always hitting me! Why do you… why do you bother?”

“You’re a dumbass,” Iwaizumi says. “You think I’d stay around if that’s really all you were?”

Tooru rubs the spot where Iwaizumi hit him. Part of him wonders, absently, if it will bruise. Then Iwaizumi’s words register. “Huh?” he asks.

Iwaizumi runs a hand through his hair. The motion is frustrated and contemplative and a bit embarrassed all at once. “I don’t care if you’re annoying or fake sometimes,” he says. “As long as I can see the person underneath all that, I’ll be your friend.”

With that, he starts walking again, at the same steady pace as before, unconcerned with the fact that Tooru is still stuck in place.

It takes a few seconds for him to unfreeze, and he sprints to catch up. “Iwa-chan,” he says, out of breath. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi says. His eyes are still fixed on the stars, but now there’s a small quirk at the corner of his lips. “Anytime."

3.

The routine is familiar. A girl he vaguely recognizes stops him in the halls, blushing and stuttering with her hands tucked behind her back, and asks whether he has a moment of time to spare. He offers her his most picture-worthy smile, says _sure thing!_ in his brightest voice, and leads her to some secluded spot where no one will accidentally interrupt them.

He smiles and nods as she falters through a confession: _Oikawa-san, you don’t know me but_ — _Oikawa-san, I really admire you_ — _Oikawa-san, please accept my feelings._

She bows at a ninety degree angle and holds out the letter and a tin of homemade chocolates. He takes them from her trembling hands and runs a hand through his hair bashfully and recites his usual spiel: _he’s so flattered, he’s too focused on volleyball to enter a relationship, he hopes she’ll find someone who will spend all his time and money on her like she deserves._

Tooru is fairly confident he can turn down confessions in his sleep by now. It’s a delicate balancing act, and he has to walk the line between not making his admirers cry and not leading them on with any false hope. He appreciates the attention, thrives off it, but he can’t say it doesn’t get stressful. Especially on Valentine’s Day, when it seems like he can’t go two steps without some underclassman tapping his shoulder and asking to speak to him alone.

It’s his third and last year at Aoba Johsai, so maybe everyone who’s watched him from afar up to this point has realized that they have a limited number of days to make their feelings known. Maybe that’s why, this year, more people swarm him than either of the two that came before it.

Tooru ends up running late to afternoon practice. He wishes he had the heart to turn down some of the people who approach him, but confessing is difficult enough as it is, and even if he’s never been in their shoes, he respects the effort they put into trying to win him over. Consequently, by the time he makes it to the volleyball club room, his hands are so full that he struggles to open the door and squeeze inside.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa wolf-whistle when they see him. “Damn,” Hanamaki says. “That’s gotta be some kind of record.”

With a sigh, Tooru dumps the assorted parcels of chocolates and cookies on one of the benches. “Help yourselves,” he says. All the letters go in his locker, to be retrieved and opened later, when he has the time. He receives too many Valentines to be able to return the favor on White Day, but if people are willing to be honest with him about their feelings, it’s the least he can do to read them.

As he changes, Tooru realizes that the three of them are the only ones in the room. That’s odd. Usually, when Tooru joins practice late, Iwaizumi is waiting to yell at him for neglecting his captain duties. Either that, or Iwaizumi is the one Irihata sends to track him down.

“Did Iwa-chan start practice without me?” Tooru asks off-handedly.

“Nah,” Hanamaki says. “He was here a few seconds ago ranting to us about how irresponsible and lazy you are. Then some first year came by, and they went off somewhere together.”

Tooru pauses halfway into tying his shoes. “Oh?” he asks.

“We think he’s getting confessed to,” Matsukawa adds unhelpfully.

Tooru swallows. “Oh,” he says.

Iwaizumi receiving confessions isn’t a given thing, the way it is with Tooru, but it’s not unheard of. He’s handsome, even if he never bothers to brush his hair and used to wash his face with soap until Tooru heard about it and, horrified, bought him a cleanser. He’s dependable, and a decent person, and more patient than Tooru is. More patient than Tooru deserves, certainly.

As he follows the train of thought, the lump in Tooru’s throat grows. “Actually,” he says, “you guys go on without me.”

Hanamaki and Matsukawa exchange significant looks, like they know something he doesn’t, which puts Tooru more on edge. “Are you sure?” Hanamaki asks. “We can wait. It looks like you’re almost done, anyway.”

Tooru waves him off with an absent smile. “Nah, go ahead. Someone needs to lead practice. Mattsun, you’re in charge. I’ll be there in a sec.”

Both of them still look unsure, but they nod.

“How come you always get to be in charge?” Hanamaki asks Matsukawa as the door of the club room closes behind them.

Tooru doesn’t stick around to hear Matsukawa’s answer. He slips out of the opposite exit and into the open. Dressed in a thin practice t-shirt and gym shorts, his skin prickles when he steps into the February air. He ignores it.

Where’s Iwaizumi? He wouldn’t—Tooru’s heart twists—he wouldn’t have ditched practice to hang out with his new girlfriend, would he?

No, that’s not like Iwaizumi. He’s nothing if not loyal, and Tooru needs him at practice.

(Needs him, period.)

He wanders around, painfully aware of each second as it slips by. He’s about to give up and ask Iwaizumi about it later when the faint snippets of a quiet conversation drift to his ears. After hesitating for just a moment, Tooru follows it until the muffled sentences swim into audibility. He stops around the corner from the spot where Iwaizumi and his confessor are standing, and he presses himself flat against the wall. The stone is cold, rough against his bare palms and calves, and his ears strain to listen in.

“—Sorry,” Iwaizumi is saying, in that gruff-yet-gentle way of speaking he adopts whenever he’s feeling awkward. “I really appreciate it, but I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”

Relief crashes over Tooru so hard his knees almost buckle, and his mouth contorts into an involuntary smile. That’s his Iwa-chan, direct as always.

Tooru doesn’t ask himself why he cares so much about this one person confessing to his best friend, and if an outsider asked him about it, he wouldn’t be able to answer. It’s just… Iwaizumi is his ace. They’ve always come as a pair; no one monopolizes as much of Iwaizumi’s time as Tooru does. And Tooru, selfish as he is, doesn’t like to part with what’s his.

“I understand,” the other voice says, and Tooru frowns, because it sounds like—

“I’m glad you told me,” Iwaizumi says. “That takes a lot of courage.”

He sounds so _kind_ that Tooru can barely stand it.

“Of—of course. Thank you for your time, Iwaizumi-senpai.” Tooru’s eyes widen. He wasn’t certain before, but that’s a male voice. A boy is confessing to Iwaizumi.

In theory, it shouldn’t change anything, but the idea of Iwaizumi being into guys has never crossed Tooru’s mind. It’s never had occasion to until now.

He hears the sound of the first year boy walking away, his footsteps crunching in the thin layer of snow on the ground, and then he hears Iwaizumi heave a sigh. Belatedly, Tooru realizes that he’s lingered for too long, that Iwaizumi will turn the corner any second now and find him eavesdropping.

Tooru doesn’t like lying to Iwaizumi, but he’s not above it, either. Desperate times and desperate measures and all that. Taking a deep breath, he adopts a cheery smile and turns the corner. _“There_ you are, Iwa-chan,” he says, faux surprise coloring the remark. “So rude, making your captain go out in the cold to find you. What are you even doing here?”

Iwaizumi appears lost in thought, but his features twist into a familiar scowl when he sees Tooru. “I was about to go in,” he says. “And put on a coat or something. You’re going to get sick.”

“If I do, it’ll be Iwa-chan’s fault,” Tooru says. “Now come on. You’re the one who’s always picking on me for being late, you hypocrite.”

“It’s one time, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi says. He falls into step beside Tooru.

Tooru makes a neutral sound. “You never answered me, you know. Why were you back here?” He’s tempting fate, he knows, but his desperation to find out exactly what Iwaizumi is thinking outweighs any sense of caution he has.

Shrugging, Iwaizumi says, “Someone wanted to talk to me.”

“A talk?” Tooru asks. He raises his eyebrows. “In private? On _Valentine’s_ Day?”

Iwaizumi flushes. “Shut up,” he says.

“Does Iwa-chan have a girlfriend now? Or—” he watches Iwaizumi’s eyes “—a boyfriend?”

Sure enough, something shifts in Iwaizumi’s expression, and he turns away. “No,” he says. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

_Interesting,_ Tooru thinks. Iwaizumi may not have a boyfriend _now,_ but neither does he seem opposed to the idea. Thinking about Iwaizumi with a girl is bad, but thinking about him with another guy is worse. Because if Iwaizumi is straight, then there’s nothing Tooru can do about it. But if Iwaizumi is into guys and still not interested in Tooru, then…

Tooru grimaces. Iwaizumi notices, but he must attribute it to the cold, because he clicks his tongue and starts taking off his jacket.

“You couldn’t have come to find me _before_ getting changed?” Iwaizumi asks. He drapes the jacket over Tooru’s shoulders. “Dumbass. If you catch a cold, you won’t be able to play.”

“We’re, like, ten feet away from the club room,” Tooru points out, but he nestles into the denim anyway. It’s warm from Iwaizumi’s body heat.

Tooru has never confessed to anyone, but as Iwaizumi scoffs and mutters something under his breath about _idiots who don’t know how to take care of themselves,_ he gains a new appreciation for everyone who has. There’s no way, he thinks, that he could possibly admit to all the torturous feelings taking up residence in his chest.

The jacket smells like clean soap and mint aftershave. Tooru should really be on his way to the gym—he must be ten minutes late by now, which makes him a horrible role model for the younger team members—but he wraps the jacket tighter around himself and waits for Iwaizumi.

Confessing is hard, but falling for his best friend is the easiest thing in the world.

4.

“Do your best out there, Toto.” It’s Aman, San Juan’s captain, going through his usual pre-game routine of walking around the locker room and offering encouragement to each of the team members. A heavy, callused palm lands in Tooru’s hair and musses it before moving on.

Tooru huffs, lifting his hands to rearrange the strands into something presentable. “You know I always do,” he retorts.

Aman shoots him a smile and a thumbs up, and Tooru grins back. He’s only been in Argentina for a couple of months, but he’s already clicked into place on the team as if the position of starting setter was hand-carved for him. He gets occasional pangs of homesickness, flashes of nostalgia where he stops in his tracks and wonders what’s happening with his friends and family back in Japan. But these moments are few and far in between, and they’re easily shaken off his shoulders.

Most of his teammates are changed, and they’re prepared to head out onto the court any moment now. This is a preliminary match, and it likely won’t have that much of an effect on the tournament rankings, but Tooru plans to give nothing less than one hundred percent no matter what the stakes are. The fact that his teammates approve of him only makes him want to work harder to prove that they’re correct in their judgement.

Tooru turns to his sports bag, resting on the bench in front of his locker. He rummages inside it for his water bottle, and the moment he takes it out, his phone screen lights up with a message.

Curious, he picks it up and inspects it, brightening when he realizes that it’s from Iwaizumi. Their weekly video chat was last night, but it’s not unusual for them to send sporadic texts to each other as they go about their days. It’s been happening more frequently since Iwaizumi started his semester at UC Irvine, since everything there is so new.

Tooru can relate. In a new country, with a new language, it’s easy to get overwhelmed. Texting Iwaizumi is grounding, familiar. It’s one of his favorite things to do. Time and distance have done nothing to dampen his fondness for Iwaizumi, and a flurry of butterflies beats against his ribcage every time he sees that name on his screen.

(His contact name for Iwaizumi is _Iwa-chan <3, _but it’s supposed to be ironic. Really.)

This time, though, when he unlocks his phone and opens the message, his heart stops.

Iwaizumi. Smiling. A selfie. For all the pictures and anecdotes he sends about his life in California, Iwaizumi rarely takes selfies, no matter how much Tooru begs and cajoles. Any other day, and Tooru would silently cheer at the image, would save it to his camera roll to look at whenever he’s feeling particularly homesick.

But that’s impossible this time around, because Iwaizumi is sharing the frame with none other than _Ushijima Wakatoshi._

Objectively, it’s a bad picture. The sun is behind them, which ruins the lighting, and part of Iwaizumi’s face is cropped out. He’s smirking at the camera, probably ecstatic at the thought of getting one over on Tooru. Ushijima’s mouth is stretched into something that looks like a grimace but was probably supposed to be a smile.

It annoys Tooru to no end. His fingers clench tight around the phone.

Isn’t Iwaizumi supposed to be in California? Isn’t Ushijima supposed to be in Japan? The last Tooru heard of him, he was scouted by some top V-league team. It should be inconceivable that he and Iwaizumi are in the same hemisphere, let alone the same picture.

But they are. They’re in the same picture, and Iwaizumi’s arm is wrapped around Ushijima’s _shoulder_ like they’re old friends, like Seijoh’s repeated losses to Shiratorizawa weren’t the worst parts of their high school experience.

Ushijima gets to touch him. Ushijima gets to talk to him without the barrier of a screen or a staticky international phone line. Ushijima gets to watch him, unpixelated, as he lights up with passion talking about his physical trainer coursework.

More than anything, Tooru has no idea why Iwaizumi thought it would be a good idea to document evidence of his treason and text it to him.

He clicks out of the picture and navigates to his contacts list. He’s about to click on Iwaizumi’s name when Aman shouts that they need to be on the court to start warming up.

Startled, Tooru drops the phone, and it lands back in his bag. He makes no move to fish it out again. Pressing his hands to his cheeks and willing the angry flush to cool down, he resolves to push the image out of his mind and concentrate on the game.

Compartmentalization is one of Tooru’s greatest strengths, but even he is hard-pressed to play to the best of his ability when Iwaizumi’s betrayal of their friendship is _right there._ His sets are a little less precise, his serves a little more aggressive and unpredictable. After the third jump-serve he hits that lands out of bounds, their coach calls a time out.

“What’s wrong, Tooru?” he asks, the name coming out accented. “Do you need to be switched out for a while?”

Tooru grimaces. He doesn’t equate being benched to the end of the world anymore, the way he did in middle school, but it’s still not pleasant. “No, sir,” he says. “I’ve got it under control.”

The coach peers at him. So do his teammates. Then he nods and shakes his head. “Do a better job of showing it, then,” he says. “But I trust your judgement. Let’s win this set, okay?”

The players cheer and jog back into their positions. Tooru takes his spot in front of the net, between Aman and one of their wing spikers. His head is clearer now.

_“When we fight, I will defeat you,”_ Iwaizumi had said. They made a promise, and if Tooru intends to see it through, he can’t afford to slack before he makes it to the world stage.

The referee blows his whistle, and the opposing team serves.

San Juan wins in four sets. Tooru is breathing hard by the time it’s over, having fought tooth and nail for each point. He bares his teeth; it’s a smile in the same way a tiger’s snarl is a smile, predatory and sharp.

His teammates drag him into a hug while the echo of the winning spike resounds in their ears. They jostle him around, elbows digging into sides, and it’s sweaty and uncomfortable. But Tooru takes it all in stride. One more step forward. One step closer to the international recognition he’s fought so long for.

They line up across the net from the other team, congratulate them on a game well played, and return to the locker room exhausted but pleased. Tooru makes small talk with his teammates as they shower and change. The contagious buzz of victory brightens the atmosphere, rendering them loose and happy.

By the time he’s ready to leave, Tooru can honestly say that he’s forgotten about Iwaizumi and Ushijima’s picture. He suffers a moment of surprise when he taps into his messages app to inform Iwaizumi of the win and sees it staring at him.

It does sour the mood, but not by much. Very little can truly dampen the thrill of a game well-fought.

On the bus back to the team’s hotel, Tooru calls Iwaizumi. He picks up on the second ring.

“Hey,” he greets in Japanese. “You just had a game, didn’t you?”

Tooru hums, pleased that Iwaizumi knows his schedule so well. “We won,” he says.

“Naturally.”

“Did you see it?”

“I was in class.” Tooru pouts, but to his credit, Iwaizumi does sound apologetic. “Send me the tapes later?”

“You just want to get intel on my play style to use against me,” Tooru says. “But fine.”

“Shittykawa, we were on the same team for more than a decade. You think I don’t know how you play?”

Tooru says nothing, but he does like the reminder of how well they know each other. When Iwaizumi says it, it feels like nothing could get between them.

Speaking of which… 

“So,” Oikawa says. “You and Ushijima?”

Iwaizumi chuckles. “To be honest, I was expecting that to be the first thing you brought up.”

Tooru sniffs. The driver starts the engine, and they peel out of the parking lot. He leans against the window and watches as the asphalt disappears under the bus tires. "Please, Iwa-chan,” he says. “I don’t care so much about Ushiwaka that I would miss out on the chance to gloat about winning.”

“I guess not. You’re a shitty person that way,” Iwaizumi says.

“Rude.” A pause. “You have some nerve, though. You, yourself, were just talking about how long we’ve played together, but you have no problem abandoning me—your best friend—for that oaf. What’s he even doing there?” Tooru can hear the pout in his own voice as he speaks. He’s always a little surprised at how childish he manages to become around Iwaizumi.

“Who’s abandoning anyone?” Iwaizumi asks. Tooru imagines him rolling his eyes on the other side of the call, and he bites back a grin. “You know that guy I told you I wanted to train under, Takashi Utsui?” He waits for Tooru to make a noise of agreement before continuing. “He’s Ushijima’s dad.”

Tooru gasps. “No way. They don’t even have the same last name.”

“Yeah. Family stuff, I guess. I didn’t ask.”

“Hmm.” The bus has merged onto the highway now, and palm trees and red-roofed buildings blur past. “Small world. You have awful taste in mentors, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi laughs. “I hope Blanco turns out to be Kageyama’s long-lost uncle or something, just for that comment.”

Tooru shudders. “Perish the thought.”

They stay quiet for a few seconds, each content to know that the other is right there. Tooru’s eyes track the clouds that pass by, set against a sky bluer than any he’s seen in Japan.

“I need to get to my next class,” Iwaizumi says at last. “Talk to you later?”

“Yeah, sure.” Tooru chews his lip, contemplating whether to say the next words. In the end, he does. “You better not end up liking Ushijima more than me.”

Iwaizumi sighs. There’s a note of fondness in it, and a note of exasperation. “Like I could ever,” he says, instead of the dismissive remark Tooru was expecting.

It makes his eyes feel hot. Iwaizumi has always been too good at reading into his words, extracting thoughts from them that Tooru doesn’t want him to know.

“Okay,” Tooru says. His voice dips to a whisper.

“Okay,” Iwaizumi parrots. “Be safe, ‘Kawa.”

He hangs up first, and Tooru stares at his own reflection in the empty black screen. Then he presses the phone to his chest and sinks against the window, a strange tightness in his throat.

5.

He’s happy. Really, he is. His teammates had taken him drinking that evening to celebrate, piling heaps of barbeque onto his plate and filling his glass with sweet red wine whenever he emptied it. It was easy for him to lose himself in the heady rush of it all. But now, here, sitting alone in his bed with the curtains drawn open to reveal a star-spotted Argentina sky, it’s harder for him to convince himself that happiness is the only thing he feels.

Making Argentina’s national team is huge. Tooru made the announcement on a television interview that morning, and his phone has been blowing up with exuberant messages from everyone he knows. Not only that, but the interview had taken place at eleven, which means his friends and family in Japan stayed up specifically to watch it and to root for him.

He wades through the sea of texts. Some of them—his relatives, his former high school team—he responds to as soon as he opens them. Others, those from more casual acquaintances, he decides to leave until tomorrow. Even Ushijima has sent him a message to congratulate him on the accomplishment, which leaves Tooru with a bad taste in his mouth. Ushijima himself has already been scouted to represent Japan, and the shadow of that knowledge hangs over the otherwise innocuous interaction. It feels mocking.

There’s one text, though, that Tooru keeps coming back to, and he smiles bitterly to himself. There’s one person who he can’t seem to let go.

**Iwa-chan <3: **Congrats, Shittykawa. See you soon.

Iwaizumi knew beforehand, of course. He was the first person Tooru called when he received news that the Olympic recruiters had their eyes on him.

_“Iwa-chan,” Tooru breathes into the receiver. His voice doesn’t seem to be able to rise above a hoarse whisper; he’s too shocked for that. “They want me. They want me to play for Argentina.”_

_“Holy shit. Fuck, give me a second_ — _” There’s some static on the other end, and when Iwaizumi speaks again, he’s louder. He must have moved somewhere more private. “That’s incredible, Oikawa. I knew you could do it.”_

_“Yeah.” Tooru swallows. “I talked to Blanco_ — _he wants me to naturalize.”_

_The unspoken implications of that linger in the silence between them. Japan doesn’t permit dual citizenship._

_“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi begins. “If for one_ second _you think about turning down the offer, I’ll fly over there to punch you.”_

_Tooru laughs, and it only rings a little bit false. “Don’t worry. I said yes_ — _or, well, I said I’d think about it, but that I’d probably say yes. It’s not official yet.”_

_Iwaizumi lets out a relieved sigh. “Thank god you’re using your brain for once.”_

_“I guess.” Tooru is too preoccupied to retort with the usual whiny rejoinder. “But don’t you think_ — _the Olympics aren’t for two years. I could still sign with a team in the V-league, go back to Japan, and…”_

_“Tooru.”_

_Tooru quiets. He’s gotten used to people calling him by his given name, but he’s not used to Iwaizumi being the one to do it._

_“Japan doesn’t need three setters,” Iwaizumi says. It’s blunt in the way he always is, and Tooru digs blunt nails into his thigh. “You’re good, you know that, but that doesn’t matter if they’re not looking for new players. They have Kageyama and Miya. Your best bet is to stay in Argentina, where you won’t have to compete with them for game time.”_

_Tooru’s nails leave white, crescent-moon indents in his skin. He wonders how hard they have to press down to draw blood._

_Iwaizumi is right. Of course he is. But that doesn’t make it easier to hear._

_“Tooru?” Iwaizumi asks. His tone gentles, softens, and Tooru is even less equipped to handle this side of him._

_“Okay,” Tooru says. “Okay, yeah. I think I already knew that.”_

_“It doesn’t mean they’re better than you,” Iwaizumi says. “It_ doesn’t. _You get that, right?”_

_Tooru offers him a weak, noncommittal chuckle. “Yeah. You sure you should be telling me that, Mr. Athletic Trainer?”_

_“Heh. I’m saying you’re good enough to beat us. I’m not saying you’re going to.”_

_“We’ll see about that.” The smile rests easier on Tooru’s face. It still hurts to think that he’s turning his back on his birth country, but it feels good to be Argentina’s first choice. And in two years, he’ll walk on the court with his head held high, and he’ll make Japan regret letting him go in the first place._

When Iwaizumi had graduated, Tooru considered asking him to move to Argentina, to take a position with San Juan. They could be on the same team again. The offer was on the tip of his tongue every time they spoke in the months prior to his graduation, and when Tooru flew out to California to attend the ceremony, he had to bite his cheek to prevent it from slipping out.

In the end, it came to nothing. Iwaizumi, in his graduation robes and cap and tassel, had pulled him into a hug, and Tooru was so charmed that he opened his mouth to ask the question then and there.

But Iwaizumi’s eyes were sparkling when he let Tooru go, and he was going on and on about finally going back to Japan, about taking a job with the Sendai Frogs in Miyagi and hoping to work his way up to the national team. Tooru shut up before he could say anything that would make Iwaizumi have to reject him.

It wouldn’t be fair to Iwaizumi, anyway, to bunk him all the way to Argentina and force him to learn a new language and adjust to the humidity. And for what, because Tooru missed him? Tooru had been missing him for the past four years. He could last a few more. He could afford not to be selfish for once.

Tooru’s thoughts drift back to the present, to the full moon streaming in through his window, and he asks himself again whether staying silent was the right choice. Part of him believes that if he truly asked, Iwaizumi would have dropped everything to go with him.

It wouldn’t be right. It isn’t their time yet.

But it’s getting harder for Tooru to believe that their time will come. Maybe they were always meant to stay like this, oceans apart, connected by a flimsy promise from high school.

Tooru feels ridiculous for being envious of an entire country, but the fact remains that Japan has Iwaizumi in its grasp, and he does not. He has to settle for watching recordings of Team Japan’s games and scanning the sidelines for a glimpse of his best friend.

He closes his eyes, tosses his phone to the side, and lets his head thunk against the bed’s backrest. _Someday,_ he thinks—hopes—prays. Someday, fate willing, he’ll be allowed to call Iwaizumi his.

+1

The Olympic village bustles with activity. The only way Hajime can think to describe it is like a beehive. Everyone is locked in an intricate dance of patterns and placements, weaving between buildings and crowds to get where they need to go.

It’s disorienting even after having lived in the village for a few days. This all seems like a dream to him, in the best way; Hajime has worked his ass off since high school to get here, and he can’t believe that he’s made it at only twenty-seven years old.

Which isn’t to say that it’s been easy. The pool matches alone were harrowing. Hajime had to watch from the sidelines as Japan battled it out in grueling matches with five other countries for their spot in the quarterfinals. In the end, they won four games out of five, earning them first place in Pool A, and morale has remained high since that initial victory. Hinata and Kageyama have been attempting riskier and riskier shots, the kind only they can pull off. Bokuto’s emo mode is rarely seen, and when it is, it’s easy to lift him out of it.

Argentina, at first, didn’t perform as well. Pool B was full of volleyball powerhouses of the likes of Brazil and the United States, and Oikawa and his team barely managed to snag a fourth-place finish with two victories. When he wasn’t on the court with his players, Hajime was spending every moment glued to the TV broadcast of Team Argentina’s matches. He found himself holding his breath often, and he only truly relaxed when they emerged victorious over France with a last-minute setter dump.

Hajime doesn’t think he’s ever cheered as loudly as he did for that last point. He couldn’t look away as Oikawa collapsed to his knees, blue jersey drenched in sweat, dogpiled on all sides by his ecstatic teammates. _Finally,_ they’re going to play against each other. They’re going to make good on an old promise.

And it’s going to happen tomorrow, sooner than either of them thought. Japan’s and Argentina’s respective rankings, first and fourth in different pools, mean they’ll be paired together for the inaugural quarterfinal match.

_We’re going to win,_ Hajime thinks, watching with his arm crossed as Japan’s players run through the last of their drills before practice ends. He’ll tell them to call it a day soon, in the interest of getting enough rest for their game tomorrow, but everyone is so fired up that he figures it won’t hurt to give them a few extra minutes. They’re spread out over two courts, Kageyama for one group of spikers and Atsumu for the other. Yaku and Komori are on the other side of each net, polishing their receives.

Kageyama sets a quick ball to Aran on his left, who smacks it down with enough force that Yaku can’t get there in time. It lands just within bounds, and Hajime grins to himself as Yaku stands up and dusts himself off, gesturing for another.

They’re in great shape for tomorrow. Oikawa won’t know what hit him.

“My, Iwa-chan,” sings a familiar voice, “you’re still here?” Hajime stiffens. Speak of the devil. Oikawa sidles up next to him and rests a hand on his shoulder. “This late in the game, you know you’re not going to be able to cram enough to beat us.”

Hajime huffs, shaking him off. “You talk a big game for someone who almost got knocked out in the pool matches.”

He turns his head a fraction of a centimeter, enough to study Oikawa in his peripheral vision. He looks… good. Looks like he just finished practice, hair wet, dressed in a sky blue tracksuit with a golden sun stitched over the breast. He’s taller than he was when he and Hajime last met in person. Broader, too. Hajime catches his eyes lingering too long, and he averts them back to the court.

Leave it to Oikawa to strut into Japan’s practice like he owns it. Both of them have been too preoccupied with their respective teams to meet up earlier, and while Hajime is happy to see him, he doesn’t doubt that it’s intentional. Oikawa is trying to catch him—and, most likely, his rivals—off-guard.

“Come on, you know better than to judge outcomes based on the pools,” Oikawa says. On the surface, he sounds carefree, but there’s an edge to the words.

“I’m judging the outcome based on what I know about my team,” Hajime says. “And I know we’re good enough to take home gold.”

Oikawa starts to respond, but before he can, an arm slings itself around Hajime’s neck. It’s sweaty, and he scowls at the man it’s attached to, but he doesn’t bother to push it away.

“Hey there.” Miya Atsumu says. “Tooru-kun, huh? I’ve heard a lot about ya. What business d’ya have with our dear athletic trainer?”

Oikawa’s grin goes from genuine to knife-sharp in an instant. “Miya Atsumu, in the flesh,” he says. “Iwa-chan hasn’t told me anything about you, I’m afraid. But if you know as much about me as you claim, you know exactly what business I have with him.”

Hajime is beginning to feel like a rare steak in between two hungry wolves. “Oi,” he says. “Knock it off, both of you. Save the rivalry for tomorrow.”

“Ah, but Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, not taking his eyes off Atsumu, “this is about more than volleyball. Not that I’d expect you to understand.”

Atsumu’s grip tightens around Hajime. “Leave Iwa-iwa out of this.”

A complicated array of emotions flickers over Oikawa’s face before it goes blank. Hajime hates it. He desperately wants Oikawa to smile again, wants to see the soft, lopsided curve of the lips that Oikawa reserves for when they’re alone. But something tells him that’s not going to happen, not with Atsumu around.

The rest of the team joins them as well, curiosity piqued by the entrance of a rival setter. Oikawa greets them with varying levels of enthusiasm as they arrive—Hinata is swept into a full-body hug, while Ushijima gets little more than a thinly-veiled glare.

Hajime rolls his eyes, watching everyone gravitate toward Oikawa. The bastard always has to be the center of attention, doesn’t he? Even in enemy territory.

Oikawa claps his hands, wickedly delighted. “Tobio-chan, Ushiwaka.” His eyes cut to Atsumu, and his smirk widens. “And now Miya-chan as well, I suppose. It’s going to be such a treat to see the look on your faces tomorrow when I pummel you into the ground.”

The tension in the room spikes. Atsumu stiffens, and around the circle, Hajime notices every one of his players start to stand straighter. Even Suna looks more alert, and Aran, normally the most easygoing member on the roster, rubs his palms together. Hajime groans. Now they’re all going to be more motivated, and it’s going to be harder for him to wrestle them out of the gym and back to their rooms.

“Your personality still sucks, Oikawa,” Hajime comments. “I guess some things never change.”

Atsumu snickers. Oikawa’s eyes flicker to Hajime, and the weight of the gaze pins him in place. “Iwa-chan,” he says, low. “You’re the person I’m most looking forward to beating, you know.”

Hajime shivers - a minute, involuntary motion, but Oikawa picks up on it. Of course he does. His lips curl upward, revealing a hint of sharp teeth.

“In yer dreams, Tooru-kun,” Atsumu says.

“We’re not going to let that happen, Grand King!” Hinata cries. “We’re gonna win, and then we’re gonna get the gold medal, too!”

Bokuto lets out a loud whoop, smacking Hinata square in the chest in his excitement. “That’s the spirit, Chibi-chan!”

“I’m not that short,” Hinata grumbles. Beside him, Kageyama’s facial muscles undergo a confusing series of contractions, like he’s trying not to laugh and to look intimidating at the same time.

“Oikawa.” That’s Yaku, and everyone turns to him as he steps forward. Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Aim all your worst serves at me tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll receive them.”

Hajime is getting teary, and he blinks to clear them away. Now isn’t the time to get emotional. But his chest feels warm at the thought of his team around him, supporting him from every possible direction.

Oikawa’s eyes meet his once more. Hajime doesn’t often find it difficult to read them, but right now, they’re inscrutable. “I see,” he says. Then: “Iwa-chan, when I win, I’m going to make you look at me the way you look at your team.”

He spins on his heel before Hajime can even ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean, and with several long strides, he’s gone. The team lets out a collective sigh of relief when he leaves.

“What was that?” Hajime asks.

“Oikawa has always been rather difficult to understand,” Ushijima says.

“Yeah, but not…” Hajime bites his lip. _Not for me,_ he thinks. It’s a new idea, that Oikawa might be keeping secrets from him, and he doesn’t like it.

Most of the remaining members disperse, waving Hajime good night and heading off to the locker rooms. A few—Kageyama, Hinata, and Bokuto among the worst offenders—glance longingly at the abandoned court. “No, you don’t,” Hajime tells them. “Shower. Dinner. Sleep.”

Atsumu lingers. He’s still half on top of Hajime, chest pressed to his back, and it’s getting uncomfortable. Sticky.

“You’re sweating all over him, Miya,” Sakusa says. Hajime jumps. The spiker has stayed silent for so long that Hajime assumed he’d gone to change early. “It’s disgusting.”

Atsumu huffs at him, but he detaches himself. _“Omiii-kun,”_ he whines, drawing out the nickname. “He wasn’t complaining.”

“Iwaizumi-san is too nice to complain. Come on.” He pushes Atsumu in the direction of their other teammates.

Halfway out the gym, Sakusa stops, tilting his head over his shoulder to stare Hajime in the eye. “With all due respect, Iwaizumi-san,” he says, “if Oikawa knew the way you look at him, I don’t think he would be worried at all.”

Then they’re gone, Atsumu muttering something incomprehensible under his breath as they go.

Hajime blinks. Worried? Oikawa has no reason to be worried. Sure, one of their teams will be eliminated tomorrow, but Oikawa hasn’t doubted his skill in years. And _“the way you look at him?”_ Hajime is getting a headache. He wishes Sakusa would say what he means.

Shaking his head, he dismisses the whole evening as yet another in the growing list of his team’s antics. Another consequence of having agreed to take a job as the volleyball world’s most high-profile babysitter.

The remaining balls need to be cleared away, and the nets need to be taken down. And tomorrow, his top priority will be ensuring that every one of his players is in perfect condition. There’s no time to worry about Oikawa. For now.

The roar of the crowd is deafening. Hajime has stood on the world stage before, but this is the _Olympics._ People who don’t know anything about sports know about the Olympic Games. And this year, they’re playing in their home country, and all of Japan has its eyes on them.

Hajime squares his shoulders and inhales deeply. The air is so thick with anticipation he can smell it. The weight of his country’s expectation bears down on him, and he can’t imagine how heavy it must rest on the minds of the players, already in formation on the court. He can’t imagine what must be racing through Oikawa’s head, either, though the setter looks as composed as ever.

Standing about four meters shy of the back line, he presses a volleyball to his forehead in the first part of his pre-serve ritual, looking for all the world like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Hajime knows better, though. There are some players whose brains can shut off during a game, who can act and react on pure instinct. Oikawa has never been of that breed. His thoughts are in constant flux, and that’s doubly true when the stakes are this high.

He has something to prove today, perhaps more than anyone in the stadium. This is a man who left his country and everything familiar to him to pursue his career. Everyone’s been talking about him: the international superstar who came out of nowhere, who shocked the world in his debut tournament with his good looks and monster serve alike. A Japanese athlete who naturalized himself in Argentina, slated to play against his birth country for the first time.

As Iwaizumi Hajime, athletic trainer for the Japan Men’s National Volleyball Team, he’s cheering his players on one hundred percent of the way. But as Iwaizumi Hajime, Iwa-chan, Oikawa’s partner and lifelong friend, some part of him wants to see Oikawa’s dreams realized. Just a little bit.

He watches with clenched fists and teeth as a series of whirlwind matches blurs past. Argentina wins the first, then Japan takes two in a row, and Argentina battles back to claim the fourth. This is a closer game than any of the ones Japan has played so far, and the strain is showing. Kageyama has been benched for the past ten minutes, Atsumu subbing for him as he recuperates in time for the final match. They’ve gone through what seems like dozens of spiker rotations, but Argentina, under Oikawa’s careful surveillance, manages to adapt to each one before long.

A whistle blows. Oikawa throws his volleyball into the air and leaps after it. In fifteen points, all will be decided.

The serve goes up. Yaku has been making good on his promise to receive them. His pass to Kageyama is wobbly, but it’s enough for him to toss the ball to Hoshiumi and score the first point.

Hajime’s spirits lift and sink at the same time. It’s a strange feeling, wanting both sides to win. He thinks it might be similar, albeit opposite, to what Oikawa felt during the Karasuno-Shiratorizawa match in high school. That was the last volleyball game they spectated together.

Neither team is giving ground. Japan scores, then Argentina, then Japan, like they’re playing catch-up. If this keeps up, it will be ages before either team gains the two-point lead needed to win.

At some point, Hajime grows too antsy to sit still. He jumps to his feet and starts pacing along the sidelines. Atsumu notices his impatience. “Yer lookin’ stressed over there, Iwa-iwa,” he teases. “Don’t ya trust us?”

Hajime doesn’t even bother to deign that with a response, other than to force his limbs into stillness. He tries to stay focused on the players on Japan’s side of the net, taking note of their strengths and shortcomings and devising new exercises to test out on them. But no matter how much he steels his resolve, he’s drawn to Oikawa like a sailor to a lighthouse.

There’s a feline fluidity in his body. His hands, so gentle when he sets the ball and yet imbued with merciless strength on every spike and serve. The liquid twist of his waist as he all but dances across the court. He and his teammates work in tandem, like a synchronous ocean, and the blue of their uniforms only adds to the illusion. The ball rockets between their fingers like a ship tossed in a storm, as forceful and as unpredictable.

Oikawa tosses the ball to his right-side hitter, who slams it cross-court. Yaku is there, but it bounces off his wrists and careens out of bounds. Hajime spares a glance for the scoreboard: 18-17. Argentina in the lead.

One of Oikawa’s teammates serves, and Sakusa receives it. Kageyama sets the ball to Hinata this time, but his spike bounces off the top of the block. The ball goes high, giving Argentina plenty of time to get underneath it.

Hajime’s heart is going to burst if it beats any harder. Adrenaline rushes through his veins, to his head, and he’s never needed to feel the weight of a ball against his palm like he needs it now.

Argentina’s libero gets it. A clean pass to Oikawa. His hands are already up, and as his fingers cradle the ball, his eyes lock with Hajime’s.

One look. One moment, but it’s electric.

_Mine,_ Hajime thinks, skin alight with a thousand volts.

Argentina’s outside hitter scores the game-winning point and the collision of the ball on the floorboards rings out and the crowd _screams,_ but Hajime hardly registers it.

It’s as if _he_ was the one to hit that spike. Hajime knows with a bone-deep certainty that Oikawa intended that last set for him. Oikawa was thinking about _Hajime_ when he scored the final point of the game.

There’s fire in his bloodstream, bright lights everywhere, sparks of realization exploding in his chest, and how— _how_ —has he left it so late?

Iwaizumi Hajime is in love.

His actions are mechanical as he passes out towels and water bottles to his defeated team. Tears stream down some of their faces; he pats them on the back and murmurs whatever words of comfort he can think of. He registers a distant tang of disappointment, but it’s detached and far away. The most immediate issue is the ringing in his ears, the way his heartbeat sounds too much like _Tooru, Tooru, Tooru._

Later, he’ll have to step up. He’ll have to stand beside Coach Hibarida as he tells them to keep their heads high. They’ll have another chance in 2024.

But for now, Hajime can slip by relatively unnoticed. His players don’t need him; they need each other, need the comfort of shared loss.

Slowly, they line up and shake hands with Argentina. Oikawa’s smile is so brilliant it’s hard to look at, but it’s not gloating or malicious. He appears to hold genuine respect for the losing team, even in the face of Ushijima and Kageyama and Miya Atsumu. Pride blooms within Hajime to see it.

Team Japan shuffles into the stadium wings, slumping with exhaustion now that the post-game high is wearing away. Hajime follows, but he splits off before they get to the showers. He won’t be needed there.

Oikawa is waiting in a side hallway near Team Argentina’s locker rooms, leaning against the wall beside a door marked _Authorized Personnel Only._ He beams when Hajime joins him. “Iwa-chan,” he greets. “Is this the part where I say ‘I told you so’?”

Hajime just looks at him. In the face of his earlier revelation, any petty response he could muster feels frivolous.

Picking up on his mood, Oikawa drops the teasing act. He still glows with victory—nothing can change that—but the new smile he adopts is something private. Something rare and sweet, made sweeter because of the hushed peace that’s fallen over them.

It’s enough to dazzle a stronger man than Hajime. He swallows, mouth suddenly dry.

Oikawa pushes away from the wall, closing the space between them. “Iwa-chan,” he breathes. “Don’t… don’t look at me like that. I take it back. I can’t handle it.”

Hajime takes Oikawa’s hands. He turns them over in his own, running his thumbs over the calluses. “Like what?” he asks.

“Like—” Oikawa’s face crumples. “Like you love me.”

And Hajime kisses him.

Bonus:

“You have no idea what it was like,” Oikawa complains. He’s curled up against Hajime’s side, tucked under his arm, and his hair brushes against Hajime’s chin when he speaks. “Before we started dating. Every moment that I wasn’t touching you, and someone else was, was _torture.”_

Hajime laughs and pokes him in the forehead. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m totally serious, Hajime.” His tone is at odds with the words; he manages to sound petulant and content at the same time. _Like a spoiled cat,_ Hajime thinks.

“To be fair,” he counters, “you’ve got more than your share of admirers. Even back in high school, they rubbed me the wrong way.”

“Hmm. But you didn’t even know you liked me back then. _I’ve_ known for years, and that makes it way worse.”

Hajime brushes some of the messy bangs away from Oikawa’s face. Then he presses a kiss to his forehead. “Loved,” he says.

“Huh?” Oikawa blinks at him, pleased but confused. The sun is setting outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of Hajime’s room, and it turns Oikawa’s hair into a lovely palette of red-orange-violet.

“Not like,” Hajime repeats. “Love. I love you.”

For a beat, Oikawa is silent, worrying at his bottom lip. Then he shoves his face into the pillow with a strangled noise. “You’re _so_ unfair,” he says. “I hate you.”

“Whatever you say.”

Oikawa’s head pops back up. “You mean it?” he asks.

Hajime softens. “‘Course. I’ll probably love you forever.”

“I don’t know how you say those things so casually,” Oikawa says, but he snuggles closer.

Hajime simply shrugs. There’s a lifetime of stored feelings in his chest, clamoring to get out, and he doubts he’ll ever run out of things to say. He can think of a dozen little sentiments right now, offhand compliments about Oikawa’s hands or eyelashes or the pale curve of his neck. But in the end, he settles on: “Let’s go to sleep. You need your energy for tomorrow.”

“Mmh.” Oikawa grabs a corner of the blanket and pulls it over them both. “Poland, huh? They’ll be interesting. Will you cheer for me?”

Hajime kisses him on the lips this time. “Obviously.”

“Then I’ll be sure to win,” Oikawa says.

(He does.)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! all comments & kudos are appreciated, and you can come talk to me on [tumblr](https://thelittlebirdthattoldyou.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/birdiwaoi)!


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